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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23474893">Have gun, will travel.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath'>Xyriath</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Numb3rs (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>During Canon, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Self-Denial, Unresolved Sexual Tension</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:55:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,143</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23474893</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian Edgerton has never been one for spending too much time in a single place.  Freedom, adventure; he's worked hard to earn that in the FBI, and he intends to keep it.  But the appeal of Los Angeles is slowly growing on him, and it's not just the beaches.</p><p>Charlie Eppes would like to think that his complete and total failure to have had a single meaningful relationship by the age of twenty-seven has to do with his accelerated academic career and dedication to his work, nothing more.  He's too busy these days, after all, now that he's added FBI consultation to his already busy docket.</p><p>Ian loves very few things more than ruining plans and challenging expectations.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Edgerton/Charlie Eppes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I don't even go here but I desperately need people to talk about this ship with.  My Discord is Xyriath#8838 hmu.</p><p>This was written/is being written as more of a companion to/alternate take on certain episodes; I'm writing along with the show and only including certain parts so at times, this might be better read alongside the episodes rather than in place of them.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> <strong>Episode 0109: Sniper Zero</strong> </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>It’s back again.</p><p>Charlie had gotten so good at ignoring it by now that he’d thought it gone for good.   Or maybe had never even existed. Spending puberty in a university doesn’t exactly lend itself to normal personal development, after all, and it’s not like his usual social circle...</p><p>He swallows and forces the thought away.</p><p>But no effort in the world will force away the damn... sensation.</p><p>The man—Edgerton, Don had called him?—folds his sunglasses after pulling them off like a character from a crime show cold open, and Charlie’s stomach does an uncomfortable somersault.  A familiar somersault.</p><p>The man is tall.  And rugged. And smug.</p><p>As his chest contracts, Charlie tells himself that it’s from the unpleasant realization that his brother had brought in another consultant.  One who, it seemed, Don hoped could do the job that Charlie hadn’t. And who had questioned his <em> math. </em>  Based on, what, the assumption that a serial killer who had chosen sniping as a method of execution was a mediocre shot?</p><p>He stiffly defends himself, wishing he weren’t a good six inches shorter than “Agent Edgerton.”</p><p>“What kind of empirical evidence are you basing that assumption on?”</p><p>Edgerton turns slightly, and dark eyes cut straight to Charlie, then Don.  A grin spreads across that face, quicker than Charlie would have expected, and Charlie chalks the pounding of his pulse up to the preparation that he’s about to be condescended.  And maybe the way the man’s jaw works from side to side.</p><p>But, to his credit, Edgerton gives a reasoned, thought out response.  Numbers back up the assessment, followed with, “Good sniper bothers to get this close, it’s to spread a man’s brain across the sidewalk.”</p><p>Charlie is just about to acquiesce, if a little bit reluctantly, when it practically sucker punches him.</p><p>“Oh, yeah, and, uh, there’s this, too.”</p><p>And there it is, the trump card laid out to make Charlie feel even sillier than before as they inspect the visible evidence of their sniper.  All while Edgerton stands before him—them—and watches Charlie. And grins.</p><p>When Edgerton compliments Charlie on his guess—his estimate had only been 87%, for god’s sake!—Charlie sort of wants to punch him.  Or would, if he were a violent person. And weren’t convinced that Edgerton could lay him out in a half a second flat, slam him onto his back, right there on the ground—</p><p>Charlie cuts off that thought very quickly.  Just in time to hear, in a low, confident voice, “We love it.”</p><p>He manages to keep a straight face as he tunes back into the conversation; something about how snipers will keep doing it because he is one.  Fine. Edgerton is an expert in his field; Charlie can respect that. Provided Edgerton returns the favor.</p><p>Edgerton slides his glasses back on as the three of them stare out over the hill.  Charlie tries not to stare.</p><p>This is going to be a long case.</p><p>—</p><p>Charlie bums a ride back to the FBI with Don.  Small mercies: Edgerton doesn’t tag along.</p><p>“Hey, Charlie.”</p><p>Don’s voice breaks the moody silence, and Charlie lowers his hand from his mouth, distracted from the whirling thoughts about prediction and trajectories and skill.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“I just wanna make sure—you know, that you’re not annoyed that I brought in Edgerton.”</p><p>Charlie’s stomach drops at the mention of the name.  “Why would I be annoyed?” he responds; he thinks he did pretty well in playing it cool.</p><p>At least, until Don shoots him a sidelong look.</p><p>“Look, your math is a huge asset to the department.  We’ve done things I never could have <em> dreamed </em> of a year ago.”</p><p>Charlie purses his lips, trying not to think about how Edgerton would smirk at the idea of a mathematician’s “guesses” helping to solve crime.  “But?”</p><p>“But it never hurts to have a second set of eyes, y’know?  He’s one of the best shots in the country.”</p><p>“I’m <em> the </em> best mathematician in the country.”  Even to his own ears, he sounds petulant.</p><p>“Which is why I still need you to keep on this.  He can give us perspective from on the ground—well, you know what I mean.  And you can work your magic and...” He wiggles his fingers on the steering wheel.  “We’ll get this guy. Two geniuses are better than one, right?”</p><p>Charlie scoffs.  “A genius? I wouldn’t count on it.”</p><p>“You’d be surprised.  Not all smartness involves... numbers and science and stuff, you know.”</p><p>“Smartness?”  Charlie raises an eyebrow, feeling a little better.  “You mean intelligence?”</p><p>Don just rolls his eyes.  “Yeah, yeah. Listen, you don’t have to work with him.  I’ll make sure of it. I can even talk to—”</p><p>“No!”</p><p>The both of them straighten, startled, at the vehemence of the reply.  Don looks over at him as they reach a stoplight, brow furrowed.</p><p>“You okay?”</p><p>“Yeah.”  Charlie clears his throat.  “I mean, I’m an adult. I’m fine.  This is fine.”</p><p>With a sigh, Don shakes his head, turning back to the road.  Charlie rests his mouth on a knuckle and stares out the window, and tries not to think about Edgerton’s broad shoulders blocking the sight of his equations.</p><p>—</p><p>Charlie hangs back as Don gives his task force briefing, confident and succinct, mostly half-listening.  The low, rough voice challenging Terry’s suggestion, however, diverts his attention right back to the issue at hand.</p><p>“This is Special Agent Edgerton from Quantico, and he doesn’t think our shooter is especially skilled.”</p><p>Even Charlie catches the slight antagonism in Don’s tone, a subtle reminder who’s in charge without necessarily challenging Edgerton’s authority.  Edgerton, of course, doesn’t seem to notice, sauntering forward with a coffee mug in one hand like he’s at breakfast.</p><p>As he begins to speak, however, he doesn’t push the issue, instead directing the conversation to another topic.  And with the facts he puts forth, supporting them with numbers and solid examples, Charlie has to admit that the man seems to know what he’s talking about.  And knows how to analyze with that knowledge, too—which even some PhDs Charlie knows can’t do.</p><p>A genius, Don had called him.  Maybe he hadn’t been too far off.</p><p>—</p><p>Charlie sets up in the abandoned building across from the crime scene, scribbling frantically with a pencil, his hand working too slow for his mind, so he has to hurry, <em> hurry </em>—</p><p>“Hello there, professor.  Still figuring the angles?”</p><p>Charlie straightens at the voice, turning to watch Edgerton saunter in, a faintly amused expression on his face.  He should have known that they’d run into each other here. Was the man here to tell him off again?</p><p>“What I’m figuring is the reason why he missed.  This shot is way closer than any of the others.”</p><p>He tries not to sound resentful or exasperated.  Or think about the fact that this supports Edgerton’s theory of skill rather than Charlie’s.</p><p>“Well, closer doesn’t mean easier,” Edgerton says easily, and Charlie pauses.  Wait, what? “He ran a higher risk of being seen here.”</p><p>Still, Charlie can’t help feeling like he’s being thrown a bone.  <em> Had </em> Don talked to him?  “Well, that wouldn’t affect the shot itself, though, would it?”</p><p>He finally looks up into Edgerton’s face, trying not to let it distract him.  God, the man is so <em> tall </em>—</p><p>“Forget about the math for a second.”</p><p>Before Charlie can process the absurdity of the statement, Edgerton gestures him over, reaching into his pocket and opening the door.  “Just look.”</p><p>Charlie follows along like a puppet on a string, trying to project at least a facade of reluctance.  But he’ll learn here, if he has to. He can’t close himself off to all of this man’s insights.</p><p>He guesses.</p><p>“Try to think like he does.”</p><p>Right now, Charlie can only think about the fact that Agent Edgerton is just inches behind, over his shoulder, so close that Charlie can hear his breathing.  Can feel a strong, warm presence behind him. He swallows.</p><p>“Invisibility is a sniper’s greatest strength.  If he starts to worry about losing it, his heart rate increases.”</p><p>Charlie can relate.</p><p>“If he doesn’t know how to handle it, his breathing rhythm gets thrown off.”</p><p>“Breathing rhythm,” Charlie asks faintly, struggling to keep his mind on sniper rifles.  But then he turns, and Edgerton is so <em> close </em>, watching him with a faint smirk, giving him this once-over look that Charlie forces himself to interpret as assessing, not appreciative.</p><p>“You’ve really never fired a gun?”  Edgerton closes the door, and is it Charlie’s imagination, or does he linger, their faces close, a little longer than he needs to?</p><p>The sudden urge to put Edgerton in his place wells up, so he says the first thing that comes to his mind.  “I don’t really believe in them.”</p><p>“Believe in them?  It’s not like they’re ghosts.”</p><p>“Obviously that’s not what I meant.”</p><p>“So you don’t take into account sweat getting into his eyes, or his hands cramping up, or adrenaline twitching the barrel?”</p><p>As Edgerton illustrates his points with his hands, Charlie learns that he can certainly picture those things.  Or... movements like them, at least. His eyes linger on those hands, at least until Edgerton continues.</p><p>“That’s the difference between an expert marksman and a guy who aims at white meat and goes home with a wing.”</p><p>The words ignite an anger within Charlie, and for once, he’s able to focus on something besides... whatever this is.</p><p>“A woman got shot today.  Not some animal.” He levels a hard look at Edgerton, heedless of the way he feels so... towered over.</p><p>Edgerton’s lips twist with unexpected bitterness.  “I see. So when I regard her as a technical problem, I’m a sick bastard, but when you plug her into an equation, you’re a scientist?”  If Charlie had thought Edgerton prickly before, this only increased his opinion tenfold.</p><p>Charlie just shakes his head, forcing himself to think of this... logically.  This guy, he’s from a completely different planet. They’ll never understand each other.</p><p>“It just seems like it’s all just some kind of sport to you.”</p><p>Charlie doesn’t bother to hide his judgement, but instead of meeting it with his own, Edgerton seems to soften, letting the aggression roll off him like water.</p><p>“It’s my job to put myself in the mind of a killer,” he says, voice factual but not aggressive, with a tone of finality.  He turns to go. “Your brother’s, too.”</p><p>Charlie doesn’t know what to say to that.  He could argue after Edgerton, tell him that he’s wrong, but... he can see the man’s point.  A bit. Not everyone sees the world in pure numbers.</p><p>He stays behind, trying to ignore the sullen sensation at being chastised, but Edgerton’s voice rings through the room.</p><p>“You coming?”</p><p>For a moment, he pauses, confused.  Hadn’t he just been told off? Hadn’t Edgerton made his point and left Charlie to stew in his lack of understanding?</p><p>Or... had he come up to start a conversation, bridge their misunderstanding?  And Charlie had bristled in his face.</p><p>He hurries after, taking quick steps to catch up.  And stay up. Because he can admit when his work isn’t perfect, and who is he to turn down an offered hand?</p><p>Edgerton glances over as Charlie falls into step beside him, and to his credit, doesn’t look terribly surprised or smug or anything else Charlie had feared.  He just looks like... he wants to continue that conversation. And Charlie needs someone to bounce ideas off of...</p><p>So Charlie takes the leap.</p><p>“The patterns of these shootings doesn’t work with my existing equations,” he finally says, hoping he’s simplified enough to communicate it effectively.</p><p>“So change the equations,” Edgerton says, as if he has no doubt Charlie could do such a thing.  The confidence thaws Charlie the tiniest bit more.</p><p>“Eh... you know, I’m starting to think my whole approach is wrong.  Like there’s a design in there somewhere but not usually where we look for it.”</p><p>Edgerton nods, expression thoughtful, and Charlie finds himself looking forward to what he might say.</p><p>At least, until Terry steps up to tell them that they’d found their man.  And that he isn’t their man.</p><p>“That’s not possible,” Charlie protests, “because this happened less than three hours ago.”</p><p>Edgerton turns to Charlie, meeting his eyes, a glimmer of realization within them.  One that tells Charlie he’s solved that puzzle, or part of it at least.</p><p>“Unless Osborne isn’t the shooter.”</p><p>It takes Charlie a moment to decipher the meaning, and Terry just says out loud what they all now know.</p><p>“We’ve got two snipers.”</p><p>Edgerton catches Charlie’s gaze and holds it, and Charlie can’t look away.</p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Larry’s musing about children, Charlie finds, twists a sharp blade of something resembling nostalgia in his chest.  He tries to ignore it, tries not to think about the way that sort of life, with a wife and two kids and a dog seems so...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the conversation shifts, and before Charlie realizes, he’s bringing up Agent Edgerton, scoffing at the notion that </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Charles Eppes, should be out there shooting guns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, why aren’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie protests, but Larry will hear none of it.  There’s a difference between data and hands-on experience.  And </span>
  <em>
    <span>human </span>
  </em>
  <span>experiences.  The thought fuels something uncomfortable within him, taunts him with the knowledge that his data will never be enough without those experiences.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You study the universe and you’ve never been to outer space.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but if I had the opportunity, do you think for a moment I’d hesitate?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie falls silent.  His mind wanders back to Edgerton standing behind him, to the brief window of time when their faces were only inches apart—</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If you could have the experience, would you hesitate?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie thrusts those thoughts away without letting them fully form.  This guy is getting under his skin. That’s all. And then Larry had had to go and agree with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But really, was Larry wrong?</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Ian doesn’t have a problem with apologizing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d probably been a bit too hard on Charlie.  Maybe more than once. He’s not used to working with the intellectual type, but from what he can tell, they—or, at least this one—seems to take the accuracy of his work very seriously, almost to a fault.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So maybe Ian had thought it might be a bit fun to tease him, just a little, about how different experiences could be from equations.  So maybe it had gone over badly, had escalated into sharp words over misconceptions that Ian had tried to put right. So maybe it had shown him a side he wasn’t expecting to see from a “math guy,” an unconditional regard for the value of human life and a passion for protecting it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So maybe Ian is pretty sure he’s picking up on some interested signals that, if he plays his cards right, could go somewhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Professor,” he greets, as Charlie hurries into the FBI office.  “Good to see you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks.  Where’s Don?”  Charlie cranes his neck to look out over the office—Ian could have told him that it was a useless endeavor, but he finds the attempt kind of endearing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“War room, I think.  Hey, listen, I wanted to tell you—I think you’re right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence from Charlie as he heads towards the war room, and Ian raises an eyebrow and follows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean about the shooter’s skill.  The latest one—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh huh, I know.  Hey, Don!” Charlie hurries off, leaving Ian standing there, feeling just a little... jilted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand claps on his shoulder, and he turns to see Sinclair grinning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t take it personally.  He does it to everyone. Just wait for what he has to say.  It’ll be worth it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian certainly hopes so as he takes his seat.  Honestly, he thinks even watching this might be worth it.  Charlie has the cute, unkempt professor look down perfectly, and the knowledge that he isn’t even trying just makes it that much better.  He sets up his graphs as the others file in, then finally begins to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian had seen some of Charlie’s work before, but nothing had prepared him for the way that Charlie lays out his work, methodically traces his steps... and then drops an analysis that Ian would never have even thought to look at.  As he begins to understand what Charlie is saying, his stomach begins to sink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t believe you have one serial sniper and one copycat.  You have an epidemic of copycat snipers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It makes a twisted kind of sense, as the rest of the team begins to join in, put it all together, but Ian struggles to wrap his head around it all.  Shooting is in his bones, the act so unique that he can’t imagine it as...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you seriously comparing these shootings to, what, some kind of fad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he knows that Charlie’s right.  And so does Charlie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One that’s growing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Confidence looks good on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The case slowly gains progress, and Charlie does everything he can to help.  He starts with the easiest, then goes from there, plotting out possibilities and evaluating variables.  They solve two, and Charlie is working on Lorenzo Marquez when he walks into the war room and sees Edgerton frowning at the picture of the John Doe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We solved that one,” he says finally, not sure what’s causing the troubled expression on Edgerton’s face and wanting to be at least a little helpful.  “Your input was crucial.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edgerton’s lips twist in that bitter expression again, and he turns towards Charlie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did we, though?”  He reaches up to tap on the post-it next to the picture.  “Still John Doe. No records. Don’t know if there ever will be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie doesn’t know how to respond to that, and can only blink, startled.  In response, Edgerton smirks wryly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, don’t think I can care about the victim?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie sputters for a moment.  “What—no! That’s not what I—” But he had sort of said that, hadn’t he?  In fact, he’d said Edgerton treated this like some sort of...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks back to the hard expression on Edgerton’s face as they’d brought in the thrill killers, back to what he’d said when they’d first met.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said you—they—love it,” he says quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edgerton stiffens slightly, turning back to the board, and Charlie hurries to explain himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not that I mean—I don’t think you’re the same as them!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you?”  He doesn't turn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Charlie says firmly, and he’s surprised to find how vehemently he means it.  “I admit I said some things, but I just didn’t get it. Not really.” He bites at his lip, following Edgerton’s gaze to the picture.  “Not until we found... them. You do it to help. You’re different.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not as much as you’d think,” he murmurs, and Charlie swallows at the unfamiliar tone.  “And that’s the hard part. Making sure that line stays.” Edgerton reaches up to lift the corner of the photograph.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stay silent for several moments, and Charlie is just about to sneak away when Edgerton speaks up again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He had a wedding ring on.  That kind of thing gets at you.”  Though his tone carries some regret, there’s a firmness to it, a determination to stop this from happening again.  “Makes you wonder who he was. Where he came from. Who gave it to him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The universe seems to tilt slightly, something clenching in Charlie’s chest as he feels a little like he did when he was on the verge of a breakthrough with the Eppes Convergence—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then Edgerton steps back, and everything snaps back into place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just makes it more important we catch this sicko.”  He finally turns back to Charlie, expression back to its usual confidence.  “How’s it going?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a few tries for Charlie’s voice to work again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.  F-fine, yeah.  I’m just...” He holds up his notebook.  “Making progress.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good to hear it.”  Edgerton nods at him, then strides away, as if nothing had happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie doesn’t know why his chest aches as he leaves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I went shooting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian looks over to see Charlie at his elbow, looking up at him with an eager, intent expression.  He feels a swell of pride in his chest—that Charlie would want to learn about Ian’s world, maybe even become a part of it.  Just a little. And maybe he’s flattering himself to think that part of it is because Charlie wants to know more about Ian, but hey, a man can dream, can’t he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?  How’d it go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, not that difficult once you get the hang of it—but that’s not the important part.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?  And what’s that?”  Ian grins at him, and he doesn’t miss the way Charlie seems to freeze for a moment, a little stunned at the attention.  Or the way that he stammers a little, then turns away, the faintest of flushes on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just—hey, over here!”  Charlie beckons the rest of the team over, and they all file into the war room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“According to you,” Charlie points at Ian, “our sniper or snipers have shown no exceptional amount of skill.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Are they really going to start this again?  Cute as he is, Charlie’s like a dog with a bone, and as he reviews the abilities of the shooters, he eventually turns on Ian to demand an explanation as to why five victims had died from a single shot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian only spreads his arms in exasperation.  He’d thought Charlie had begun to come around to the idea of another expert, but apparently not.  “A little ability, a lot of luck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what?”  And damn, Charlie shouldn’t be so cute when he’s this confident.  “You’re actually exactly right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh.  Well, then.  Ian nods his acknowledgement, burying his face in his coffee cup to hide his smirk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smirk slowly grows into a grin as Charlie continues—and as Ian realizes that his claim of being “an exceptional basketball player” hadn’t been a joke.  The math professor has hidden depths, it seems.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The grin fades to an intent expression, however, as Charlie goes over his findings.  This time, the pattern emerging is something he can work with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re going to get this fucker.  But first, Ian needs more coffee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the coffee, the progress doesn’t go as quickly as they’d hoped.  No one can seem to find a link between the victims, and Ian can only sit and think, the sensation of uselessness constantly growing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of all people to be their savior, he isn’t expecting Don Eppes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The crime starts where the bullet was shot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie, of course, has to phrase it in the most ridiculous way possible: “the commonality is in the sniper’s selection of his site rather than his target?”  Ian hates how charming he finds the verbiage, so he immediately stands and directs his focus on the problem at hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He goes through what he’d already assessed on his own, pointing out the merits of Don’s theory, but explaining why he’d hit a dead end.  For his trouble, he gets another Charlie-ism about time and space intersecting...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unless... he was already familiar with the locations.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian’s eyes gleam as he points at Don.  The pieces begin to fall into place; he’d been looking at the shootings as being about the target, like most snipers would make it.  But if they approached it this way...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looks like Charlie isn’t the only smart one in the family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Banitek Towers.  That’s going to be where this ends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian knows how it’s going to end, too, though he doesn’t say it out loud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he takes in the site, watching the FBI and police secure the area, he knows they’ve chosen the right spot.  And he also knows how dangerous this man will be once they’ve emptied the area.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He helps, then gets right to doing his own assessment, one that will only be of use to him.  Scouting the windows, he brings his rifle up to rest on the hood of a car, just in case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mind of a killer.  He works through what the sniper must be thinking right now, how he must be feeling, seeing his prey taken from him.  He imagines the frustration, the desperation, and—above all—the unrelenting thirst for success.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Briefly, he wonders if the man will run, but almost immediately discards the idea.  This sniper either wants victory or to die trying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the periphery of his senses, he notices the car drive up, but chalks it up to backup.  Any new agents on the scene will know what instructions to follow: don’t make yourself a target.  Take cover whenever you can. Keep an eye out for any strange behavior.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn’t until a few moments later that he eventually turns—and his chest ices over.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Charlie?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  What the hell is he </span>
  <em>
    <span>doing</span>
  </em>
  <span> here?  Surely someone so smart couldn’t really be so stupid—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But no time to stop this.  There’s only one thing he can do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushes everything else away until there’s nothing but him and the rifle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie doesn’t realize what’s going on, even after the car window shatters; he’d been doing math and now he’s being tackled?  The concrete hurts, and he twists—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Charlie!  Stay </span>
  <em>
    <span>down!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes flick up to the shattered window, and for a moment, he forgets to breathe.  He’d come that close to...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then one last shot, and everything is silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, he wonders if he’s dead, if this is just some momentary hallucination before the life leaves him.  Then people are rushing towards him, rolling him over, and the sensations rush back in, too loud and too overwhelming and all he can do is shake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>died.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“The shooter’s down.  Is he okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie manages to look up to see Agent Edgerton, tall and competent as always, watching him with a desperate concern that manages to break through the terror still gripping him.  He doesn’t know what it is, exactly, that stirs in his stomach, but it’s a relief in the midst of everything else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don demands answers, and he tries to explain, but his fear is beginning to give way to foolishness.  Embarrassment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even when Edgerton compliments his work, he can only enjoy the brief flush of pride so much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But after he’s led away, after he’s put in the car and they begin to drive home, there’s one thing that keeps spinning around and around in his head, something that pushes away the fear and leaves his skin warm and tingling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edgerton had saved his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian puts off the flight back to Quantico for a couple more days, at least.  If anyone can get away with it, he can, after all; they’d learn to keep him happy years ago, and who </span>
  <em>
    <span>wouldn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to spend a couple of days on a California beach?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that he does any of that, of course.  In fact, he spends most of it lurking around the FBI office, hoping to catch a glimpse of a certain mathematician.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, he is informed, Charlie only comes around when they need his help, and all of their cases at the moment are fairly standard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, well.  Worth a shot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian doesn’t have much packing; he’s always been able to live out of a duffel, and the guns stay locked up when he isn’t using them.  So he’s settled in for a relaxing night in his hotel with the television when a knock sounds on his door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of all the people he thinks he might see on the other side of it, Charlie Eppes certainly isn’t one of them.  And yet, there he stands, expression uncertain, almost hesitant, a folder under his arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Professor.  Did I miss class?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie huffs a laugh, a faint smile chasing his lips, and Ian smirks.  No one laughs at a joke as dumb as that, not without an ulterior motive.  “I have something for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smirk deepens.  Ian had underestimated Charlie’s forwardness.  He steps back and holds the door open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad I caught you before you left.”  Without so much as a greeting, Charlie opens his folder and launches into an explanation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I was thinking about what you said the other day, and I wanted to help.  I know that FBI resources are strained, so I thought I’d do what I could.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens the folder, and all other thoughts immediately flee Ian’s mind as he sees the picture of their John Doe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I ran a probability matrix on certain identifying features and pulled out a lot of search points for elimination.”  He goes for a bit longer, but Ian doesn’t understand a word of it. Not until, “I didn’t find out who he is, but it should be enough to make him easier to identify with the connections you might have.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian doesn’t know what to say as he takes the offered folder.  He doesn’t know what to </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  When he flips through it, he sees that despite the technical jargon in the explanation, the data has been laid out meticulously in a way that even Ian can understand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he finally says, looking up.  The hopeful expression on Charlie’s face draws a smile onto Ian’s.  A real one, this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.  It seemed important to you, so I wanted to help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian studies Charlie’s face for a few moments, quietly admiring it—and everything else he knows about the man.  The silence stretches on, as if waiting for one of them to break it, though not uncomfortably so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I—I should get to class.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian sets the folder down, then crosses his arms and leans on the wall, one eyebrow raised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Surely even you play hooky sometimes.  You’re welcome to stay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie sighs, and Ian isn’t sure if he sees regret there, but he certainly doesn’t see realization.  “No, I really need to go. I can’t be late again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian’s lips quirk at the ‘again.’  “If you’re sure. I’ll have to be a bad influence later, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The grin from Charlie does something to Ian, a weird sense of protectiveness and attraction that sends him back to that day at Banitek, when he’d seen a certain math professor wandering around a perilous sniper zone, unaware of the risk.  Something hopeful, if breathtakingly guileless. A bright, untainted spot in Ian’s dark, dangerous world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I look forward to it, if we meet again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s that guilelessness again, and Ian suppresses a surge of internal regret.  He knows when a move will spook a target, and the same principle applies here. Maybe next time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When,” he corrects, extending a hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie pauses, blinking, but then takes it, still grinning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When, then.  It was nice to meet you, Agent Edgerton.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ian squeezes the hand.  “Call me Ian.”</span>
</p>
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